


Baguette du Magique, or: The Licentious Misadventures of The Coat Rack and Grumpy the Kettle

by Lynesang



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Apron!Kink, Curious Objects and Conscious Knickknacks, Dorks in Love, Draco fixes dildos, M/M, bakery au no one asked for, sentient furniture, seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-20 09:28:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11918001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lynesang/pseuds/Lynesang
Summary: Life was calm and simple for one Draco Malfoy. Enchanting (or disenchanting) cursed furniture and haberdashery from within the safety of his shop: Curious Objects and Conscious Knickknacks.Until That Bakery moved in up the street and everything went to hell.“Ta, love,” Pansy said, wiggling her fingers, “Have you ever thought of just asking Potter why he’s so intent on making you fat?”Draco paused, horrified, “You don’t think he’s trying to make me fat, do you?”Pansy just started laughing again, tears streaming from her eyes, waving her hand ineffectually.“Fucking Potter with his nefarious plots, trying to ruin the glorious Malfoy waistline…”





	Baguette du Magique, or: The Licentious Misadventures of The Coat Rack and Grumpy the Kettle

**Author's Note:**

> This was, I'll admit, one of those things that just sort of happened to me. I had to write it, regardless of how patently ridiculous the whole set up might be. This is the first time I've written any fic since the good old days of schnoogle and fiction alley, so be kind to this old bat. (I'm not that old, really. I promise).

Standing in the middle of a pristine workshop, there was a tall man. He was rather broad across the shoulders, though narrow through the waist. A pristine white button down was tucked into immaculately pressed grey trousers; His sleeves were rolled up, revealing a formless black smudge on one arm, a gently curling narcissus flower on the other. His hair was nearly white, curling elegantly through the top of head, shorn close to his scalp on the sides; his long-fingered hands lazily held a thin stick, from which there was a soft glow. The stick, of course, was a wand; The man, naturally, Draco Malfoy. 

Wand hovering, twirling in a slow circle, Draco nibbled lightly on his lower lip as he peered through the dark frames perched on the end of his nose. Flicking his wrist, a swirling array of elder futhark transcribed itself in glowing, arctic blue above the stone goblet on his work station. The commission was a normal one, as many of his often were these days, dismantling the charms on a cup spelled to cause whomever drank the liquid therein to spout embarrassing secrets to all and sundry. Old Archibald Macmillan had told one too many a tale at a recent family gathering, and his grandchildren wanted gone with the devilish dishware lest he reveal something even more horrible than a passing fancy for centaurs. 

Eyes crinkling at the corners, he remembered one particularly eventful dinner party wherein one of his many distant relations drank from a goblet much like this one and announced how fervently they wished someone would treat them like a house elf (tea cozy and all). Snorting softly, he moved his wand with a violent little twist and a dash of will; The runic array collapsed in pieces, the binding magic scattering in the air like dancing fireflies. 

Draco watched their progress for long moments, features sharp in the chilly light of the dissipating spell, before heaving a sigh (his mother wasn’t around to admonish him). Pushing his glasses up to rest amidst the curling hair on top of his head, he double checked that the goblet was inert with another flick of his wand. Satisfied when his scan came up with nothing, his stomach chose that moment to let out an undignified grumble. Grimacing, he reached for the dove grey robe hanging from an ancient Coat Rack in the corner of his workshop. The Coat Rack croaked at him threateningly. Swatting it with his wand he muttered, “Fucking ancient piece of sentient wood.” The offending piece of furniture purred. 

Swirling his cloak around his shoulders, he paused long enough to mumble a litany of warding spells upon the door of his workshop along with a conjured sign that simply said, “Wait.” A few passers by glanced at him as he turned to face Diagon Alley, but most let their eyes slide over him to look at more interesting sights. Beyond his clearly superior breeding and features, Draco Malfoy was no longer considered a novelty in Diagon Alley.  
A collection of years had past since setting up his little shop, each more quickly than the last. Before Draco knew it, nearly 15 had come and gone since the war; Life was better than anyone thought it could have been for a convicted Death Eater. Perhaps that was the way of the Wizarding world, to forget the hurts and long suffering of a marginalized few. Voldemort hadn’t been the first Dark Lord, he surely wouldn’t be the last. 

Draco rather thought someone had performed a mass obliviate, considering. He had opened his shop shortly after the chaos of the war had died down, when he had finished his community service (which was after he had finished his final year at Hogwarts – what a ridiculous farce that was). Pansy had floo’d him one day with a rather insidiously cursed (unfortunate looking) handbag and that had been that; ‘Curious Objects and Conscious Knickknacks’ had been born from the wreckage of his young life. He had charmed his sign to read “Conscious Knickacks’ to those under the age of 17 at the behest of the Diagon Ally Propriety Approval Commission. 

The old wankers. 

“I can’t believe it, really, Doris, what a surprise…” an old Witch was saying, her magenta hat flopping around her ears with her exuberance. Her gnarled hand was clutching what seemed to be the sweetest, warmest smelling pink paper bag Draco had ever had the pleasure of smelling. His mouth watered, stomach growling in sympathy. He needed whatever was in that little bag. Yesterday, maybe. Possibly last week. 

Zeroing in on their conversation, he heard Doris reply: 

“To be sure, Midge, to be sure. What a delightful young man…such talent!” Doris was bent nearly double, with less teeth than a flobberworm. Draco wondered absently if she had hag somewhere along the line. “ I’ve never seen anyone quiet so skilled with a baguette!”

Draco, who had come to be interested in men with talent (baguettes, no less!) , coughed into a lightly curled fist. 

Doris and Midge stopped short and whipped their heads around to titter at him, jowls wiggling forbiddingly. 

“I could not help but overhear, ladies, from whence did you come?” He kept his voice formal and low, lips curling in what could be a smile if you didn’t know him well enough. 

It was Midge who spoke, magenta hat tilting alarmingly upon her greying head, “Baguette du Magique, of course! The new shop at the corner of Diagon and Limn Alley.” Shaking her paper bag for effect, she and Doris turned on their surprisingly high heeled boots and disappeared into the throng of mid morning Diagon traffic. 

Brows knitting in confusion, Draco mumbled in precise, practiced French, “Baguette du Magique?” 

Stomach twisting in hunger, he shrugged elegantly before setting off towards Limn Alley, long legs moving a bit faster than could be considered casual (not really, though, honestly! Somewhere Lucius Malfoy sat bolt upright and shuddered. Imagine walking any way other than a casual saunter. The _horror_ ). 

*

A Bakery. 

Draco stared up at the golden, curling letters sprawled across a dark wooden sign. He glanced at the various confections set upon porcelain trays cluttering up the polished glass windows. There were fairy cakes, shining loaves of perfect sourdough, gently spinning cinnamon twists. Mouth watering, stomach grumbling, he shouldered open the scrubbed wooden doors and basked in the heavenly scent of freshly baked pastries. 

There was a throng of satisfied twenty somethings eating what looked like glittering sugar nests, fresh red fruit nestled within them like shining phoenix eggs. A middle aged, overworked looking ministry worker was polishing off what looked to be a blueberry scone with clotted cream and a cup of faintly golden tea. 

The proprietor had his back turned to the occupants of the shop, his broad shoulders curved as he bent over a tray of soft looking fairy cakes, piping out silver icing with a gentle hand. His hair was a cacophony of dark curls, pulled into a knot at the top of his head, twists and whorls of hair brushing the brown skin of his neck. There was a long dark wand shoved through the hair at the crown of his head, which seemed vaguely familiar, though Draco couldn’t place where he might have seen it. The man was on the short side, and seemed to have a hideously frilly pink apron tied just above the curve of his ( _fucking morgana’s tits_ ) arse. 

Draco couldn’t help himself, bending slightly at the waist, eyebrows raising as he took a long look at another set of firm buns on display. Licking his lips, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers, stepping up to the counter. 

The man turned, a wide, white smile written upon the brown lines of his face, round glasses slipped down the bridge of his nose, green eyes bright underneath a scar like lightning. 

Draco blinked. 

Potter blinked. 

“Potter?” Draco questioned elegantly; well, it was more of a gurgle that sounded somewhat like Potter, though Draco would only admit to sounding unrefined under several rounds of the Cruciatus curse.  
The man in question seemed to gather himself quickly, (that _bitch_ ), and his smile only relaxed into something familiar and all together unsettling somewhere below the region of Draco’s belt.

“So they tell me,” Potter said with a funny little quirk of his nose and an inelegant shrug, brows creasing. Draco took a long moment to restrain the urge to turn around and run, Potter’s smile became sharp as if he could sense the direction of Draco’s thoughts. 

Clearing his throat, Draco smoothed down invisible wrinkles on his crisp white shirt to collect himself, trying very hard not to imagine Potter only wearing the delicate pink apron he seemed to be pulling off with effective masculine aplomb. 

“How long have you been here?” Draco asked, conversationally he thought, though it might have come out a bit more demanding than he had hoped. 

Potter chuckled, as if amused (that bitch!), and pulled his tray of cupcakes forward, continuing to pipe creamy looking icing as he spoke, “Since about 1980,” he said, eyes twinkling, “But if you mean here? I just opened last week.” His hands were sturdy as they wrapped around the piping bag, Draco’s mouth momentarily went dry. 

“Very good, very good,” he waffled, hands twisting in his pockets. 

Potter looked at him with one dark eyebrow raised, lip quirked, “Sure, “ he agreed, though Draco had no idea what Potter was agreeing with. “What can I do for you, Malfoy? Does anything here entice you? A fresh brioche, perhaps? Or a ginger lemon croissant?” Potters lips moved over the French words confidently, and Draco had to stop himself from staring. He spent a thought for other things he might find enticing (like _stupid fit Potter with his fucking icing bag and sure, wide hands_ ). His trousers suddenly felt far too tight. 

“I’m sure there’s something here,” Draco managed instead, browsing the wide glass display between the two of them, “surprise me, Potter.” 

Potter stood, looking far too comfortable in his ridiculous pink apron, setting down his piping bag at last. 

“I have just the thing.” 

*  
“Oi! Pansy! You merlinfucking slag, answer your bloody floo before I…” 

Draco never did get the chance to tell Pansy what he might do, because the woman herself seated herself gracelessly upon a well-placed velvet tufted chaise lounge. 

“Yes, Draco darling? Light of my life, moon to my sun, gay of my heart?” She was wearing a loose robe, all silk and delicate lace. Her hair was shorn close to her scalp in a pin straight pixie cut. Draco had thought it suited her, when she chopped her hair off during a dare in the eighth-year common room all those years ago. She’d kept it, though it was a bit more well styled these days. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?!” Draco said, coming through the floo with a muffled curse and a small explosion of soot. 

“That our love could never last? You know ours is a forbidden love. You love cock more than a delinquent chicken farmer. I thought you knew,” she placed an immaculately manicured hand over her heart, dark eyes glittering mischievously. 

Draco scoffed, hand twisting around a somewhat crumpled pink paper bag. He had already eaten the sinfully delightful crepes Potter had made for him, filled with gently sweet pastry cream and roasted walnuts. Of course, perfect Potter with his stupid hair and thick arse would make delicious crepes. Merlin fuck. 

“This!” Draco crowed, shoving the bag into Pansy’s hands, throwing himself upon the chaise next to her with a long-suffering kind of groan. His trousers were still too tight, his heart beating rapidly like a caged snitch. 

“Draco, love,” Pansy began, holding the bag as far away from her as possible as if she were worried she might catch whatever insanity had gripped him, “Use your words. I can’t have told you about pink paper bags, for I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re on about.”

Running his hands through his hair, causing his carefully coiffed curls to stand on end, Draco met her eyes, “ _Potter_.”

Pansy blinked, perfectly plucked eyebrows raising, “Potter?” She said, tilting her head. “Really.” Taking the tone of one very used to dealing with his nonsense, Pansy sighed. 

“You’re talking about his bakery, I assume?” She said, looking carefully at the pink paper bag with new eyes. 

Draco felt a thrill of betrayal at her words, opening his mouth to ask, nay, demand why she hadn’t thought to let him know about this bit of very important news. Potter, of all people, just down the road, making fairy cakes like he wasn’t the most heroic figure the wizarding world had ever seen. Before he could start in on what would be a very poignant, necessary rant, Pansy held up a hand to his mouth. 

“Granger told me about it yesterday,” she shrugged, robe slipping down one pale shoulder, “We were working late in the Department, and she brought this box full of the most sinful pastries you’ve ever had. When I found out Head Auror Potter himself made them, well…” she trailed off

Pansy worked for the Department of Mysteries, which brought her in contact with one Hermione Granger-Weasley daily. Draco knew this. He also knew that up until last week, Harry Potter was the Head Auror, a job which he didn’t seem keen to lose any time soon. Barely a day could go past when Draco wasn’t reading some new exploit of daring do perpetrated by one H. J. Potter, Boy Who Lived, Man Who Conquered (Draco’s pants). He let out a noise like a sad balloon. 

Squinting at him, Pansy flicked the pastry bag into the fire with a careless gesture of her pale wand, “I can see you’re worked up about this, dearling. I thought you had worked out all of your Potter hysteria in eighth year when you shoved your tongue down his throat during that game of spin the wand.” Pansy laid a hand on his arm, fingers cool. 

“That was before,” Draco said savagely. 

Pansy nodded, hand tightening on his arm briefly before pulling away. Draco meant, of course, when he had expectations laid upon him. Marry a fine pure-blooded witch, have a white haired little sprog, continue the line. Some time around his 25th birthday, Draco had sat Lucius and Narcissa down and told them in no uncertain terms that he liked strong, thick arsed blokes (possibly with round glasses and interesting scars, maybe). 

He and Lucius still had trouble, sometimes, holding a conversation that didn’t disintegrate into yelling and curses. Hexes too, though Narcissa had spelled them to opposite sides of the room to sulk in their respective corners whenever things got too heated. 

“If you’re so bothered, Draco, why not just talk to him?” Pansy suggested gently, meeting his eyes levelly.

Draco snorted, looking away.  
“Nonsense,” he said, completely determined to avoid Potter at all costs. 

*  
Potter found him, of course, as Potter had always been wont to do, nonsense or no. 

The first time Potter brought him lunch, Draco was in the middle of a deeply complicated charm inlaid upon a glittering orange phallus. The thing had ridges and nubs, odd angles – interesting to look at, perhaps more so when it wasn’t.

“Impressive,” came the low voice behind him. 

Draco would remember the unmanly shriek he let loose for the rest of his probably short life. Potter was going to give him a heart attack. The dildo let out an unsatisfied whining sound. 

Turning on his heel, Draco glared down at Potter as fiercely has he could manage with a dissenting cock on the table behind him. 

“What!” Draco said, wand spitting bright sparks between them. 

There Potter stood, still in his horrible pink apron, holding up a tray between the two of them, a plaintive smile sliding over his face. There was a newer scar bisecting the corner of his mouth, Draco noticed. His hand twitched. There was a sandwich on the tray, stuffed with what looked like curling slices of maple ham and a steady drip of honey mustard. Draco’s stomach let out a growl. The dildo cried mournfully. 

“Lunch?” Potter said, eyeing the orange monstrosity behind Draco with interest. Draco cleared his throat. 

“What?” he said, lips curling in what he thought was an impressive sneer. 

Potter let out a bark of laughter, “Really, Malfoy,” he said, as if that was all that needed saying (that bitch!). Without any further discussion, he bent and set the tray on Draco’s desk (the _arse_ on that man), petting the Coat Rack on the way out. The fool piece of furniture grumbled in pleasure, and Draco enjoyed the worst sort of swooping in his stomach. 

“What,” Draco said to the empty room, eyeing the sandwich as if it might bite him.

The glittering cock let out a high-pitched scream in response. 

*

The second time Potter brought him lunch, it was honestly closer to breakfast, and Draco was reading a rather boring passage about the Horatio Array, which was a rather stale piece of magic used to impart a sense of unease upon a piece of well used furniture. He was trying in vain to de-personify his recalcitrant Coat Rack. The offending chunk of wood was growling rather ominously that day, having tried to bite his hand first thing that morning. How a bit of sentient wood with no teeth managed such a thing was slightly beyond him, even with his rather stunning resumé. 

“Hullo, Malfoy!” 

Draco blinked owlishly, “Potter,” he said, peering over his glasses. 

Potter was still wearing that offensive apron, and there was a smear of flour dusting his cheek. Draco had a very sincere moment wherein he was quite glad to be seated with a desk between them. 

Smiling, Potter laid down a platter upon his desk, lifting a silver lid to show off the delicate little crepes Draco had enjoyed (moaned over, really) that first day in Potter’s shop. 

“I thought you’d like some breakfast,” Potter said, setting himself down on the only other chair in Draco’s work shop. Running flour dusted hands over his garish apron he mumbled, “I…er…I forgot the cutlery, though, I can conjure some if you’d like.” 

“Ta ever so, Potter,” Draco managed, mouth watering. Potter canted his head, waving one hand, the Grumpy Kettle Draco rarely used boiling merrily with just the slightest brush of magic. “A bit inept, though, Potty.” 

Another wave of Potter’s wide ( _warm, hot, sure_ ) hand and the kettle poured two perfect cups of tea; Potter conjuring the fine china out of thin air with what appeared to be a thought. A fork and knife followed shortly thereafter, settling themselves near Draco’s hand with a little clink. The man himself blushed ruddy under his warm brown skin, chaotic hair still tied up messily with what Draco knew to be his wand. 

Draco cleared his throat, thinking that he really should find looser pants if this was to become a ritual of theirs. Then a most marvelous, wonderful idea occurred to him. A way to return these horrible feelings to Potter, get them out of his system. Evil, perhaps, but…maybe if he just…

Breathing in, deeply, as if to fortify himself, Draco pinched one of the still warm cylindrical crepes between thumb and forefinger, and ate the whole thing down in just one bite. 

Potter let out a whoosh of air, eyes blown wide. 

Satisfied, chewing, Draco repeated the process with the second crepe, never looking away from Potter for even a moment. 

Potter whined. 

Licking the sweet pastry cream from his long fingers, Draco sucked noisily tilting his head with the barest of dirty grins. Adam’s apple bobbing, he swallowed, fingers sticky where he held them against his mouth. “Why did you stop?” Draco asked, licking another finger clean. 

“What?” Potter’s hands were clenching his teacup rather stiffly, Draco thought. 

“Being an Auror, Potter. Use your words,” Delicately picking up another crepe, he licked the pastry cream from the centre with a filthy little slurp. 

“Er…” Potter began, biting down on his lower lip a bit too hard, “I just couldn’t…uh…well… I wasn’t happy. Anymore, I mean. Killing people, locking them up, I spent more time…you know… I got tired of hurting people. Merlin what are you doing?” 

“Mmm,” Draco replied, tonguing the crepe licentiously. 

“Malfoy,” Potter said, a bit of a tremor in his voice. 

“Yes, Potter?” Draco set the remains of the crepe upon the conjured plate and spelled himself clean with a wave of his wand. Grasping for the teacup, he was quite (quite, quite, quite) grateful for the desk between them. His other hand went to push at his cock below the desk, tilting his head in what he hoped was a courteous, casual manner. 

“I…had better get back to the shop.” 

Potter fled. The Coat Rack groaned in sympathy.

If you had intimated that Draco brought himself off with three quick strokes and a muttered, “Merlin. Fucking. Potter” only ten seconds later, you might find that one Draco Malfoy did protest quite (too) loudly. 

*

“What do you actually do here?” 

This time (the third time, he reminded himself) Draco was ready for Potter, mentally anyway, so he continued the lazy figure eight pattern required for the enchantment he was laying upon the old cuckoo clock set in pieces on his work bench. 

“Enchantments, Potter. Or disenchantments, depending on the client,” He said, head bent low over the guts of the poor thing. “I work delicate magic over difficult furniture, if you want to get specific. Not that you can manage specifics under that monstrous hair of yours.” 

The Coat Rack rumbled its approval from the corner of the room. 

Draco could hear Potter shuffling behind him, the low clatter of yet another tray laid upon his desk. Deep as he was in the unraveling of this particular spell, he paid Potter little mind as he began to draw the runic array from the cogs of the old clock; Mumbling his thanks as Potter set a cup of tea near enough to see but not near enough to mess with his concentration.

When Draco finally turned from his work, glasses resting on top of his head, there was a beautiful brioche bun topped with a delicately poached egg and dripping butter. 

*

“He’s going to kill me, “ complained Draco after the fifth time Potter had brought him lunch (braised beef on sourdough). (The forth time Potter had only floated an absolutely devious stack of Belgian waffles through his open door).

“Draco, you said that last time he brought you lunch,” Pansy chided, carding her hands through his hair. Wearing an insouciant smile, Pansy peered down at him with the gentlest of expressions. Draco was rather worried she thought he was a frightened animal, the way she cooed at him. 

He sighed. 

“What is he up to? Potter, I mean,” Draco said, exacerbated. Pansy laughed deep and loud, hiding her face in her hands. 

“I could ask Granger,” she said between chuckles, trying to compose herself as Draco glared up at her with as much heat as he could muster. Which seemed to set her off further, dislodging his head as she cackled like his old aunt. 

“You sound like Bellatrix,” he said, frowning in distaste. One should never keep one’s thoughts from their closest friends after all. 

“Rude.” 

From his spot on the floor, curled in an ungainly heap, Draco gave her a two-fingered salute. 

“Ta, love,” Pansy said, wiggling her fingers, “Have you ever thought of just asking Potter why he’s so intent on making you fat?” 

Draco paused, horrified, “You don’t think he’s trying to make me fat, do you?”

Pansy just started laughing again, tears streaming from her eyes, waving her hand ineffectually.

“Fucking Potter with his nefarious plots, trying to ruin the glorious Malfoy waistline…” 

*

Baguette du Magique was quiet when Draco sauntered through the door one rainy Saturday evening. He had just closed up his shop (This time with a sign that simply said, “Wait Longer”), and was ravenous for a cuppa that didn’t try to poison him. Grumpy the Kettle had only gotten worse in these last few weeks, and would not make proper tea for anyone but Potter. The Coat Rack had started an ominous revolt, as well, dropping his silk cloaks whenever the mood struck the foul tempered block of wood. 

So it was a very disgruntled Draco Malfoy who entered the sweet smelling, sugar coated confectionary. His cloak was rumpled and damp, hair stuck to his forehead (he could never use a drying charm, for fucks sake his hair was delicate), and his trousers were bordering on soaking fucking wet. Needless to say, Draco Malfoy was feeling a way about things. 

“Potter!” Draco barked, dropping his sodden cloak over the back of what looked like a perfectly ordinary chair. Sodding Potter with his normal pieces of furniture. Draco bet (stupid fit) Potter didn’t have to worry about a Coat Rack trying to kill him (that bitch). 

The door to the back room swung open with a muted creek, Potter was dusting his hands off on his atrocious pink apron, brows raised. 

“Hullo, Malfoy,” Potter said, looking him up and down, “Hn,” he continued rather aimlessly. Pulling his wand from the messy coils at the top of his head, Draco was treated to the sheer length of Potter’s ridiculous hair. Flipping the offending bird’s nest over one shoulder, twisting his wand vaguely in the direction of his tea service, Potter met his eyes. Draco caught himself staring at the delightful manner Potter’s jaw met the skin of his neck (that stubble just _begged_ to be nibbled) and had to restrain himself from fidgeting. 

“Rough day?” Potter asked, passing him a china teacup filled to the brim with a spicy smelling red tea. Draco fumed for several long moments, breathing in the scent of the brew before taking a fortifying sip. The tea reminded him of Potter. It tasted sweet and hot and warmed him right to the tips of his perfect Malfoy toes (which were most certainly not webbed, thank-you Weasley). 

“My Kettle is enamored with you,“ Draco said finally, leaning against the counter, “And The Coat Rack. Agatha Diggory came by to pick up her darling Terrance, which was surprising for all of us I’ll let you know. Randy old bint.” 

Terrance, it turned out, was the bright orange self fucking dildo he’d enchanted to vibrate just three weeks ago. Agatha was about 105 if she was a day. Virile old bat. 

Potter, gem that he was, shuddered appropriately as he placed two warm sugar cookies in front of Draco. 

Draco peered at Potter suspiciously, “You’re not trying to make me fat, are you?” 

Potter spluttered, nearly choking on his tea, “Merlin, no!” He laughed, the sound soothing the nerves right out of Draco’s tense shoulders. 

Leering at Potter a moment longer, Draco hummed in approval when he finally bit into one of the cookies. 

“Where did you learn to bake, Potty?” he asked when he was done chewing. 

Potter’s green eyes tracked the movement of Draco’s tongue as he licked the crumbs from his lips. Draco tried not to preen. 

“I suppose I learned some of it growing up, yeah?” Potter shrugged, and Draco gave a thought to the stories he heard many years ago about Potter’s muggles. The golden candles hovering about the shop kissed Potter’s arms and the planes of his face in glowing light; Draco let himself stare. 

“If you had shown half the skill in potions as you do with all of this, Professor Snape would be rolling over in his grave,” Draco said levelly, gesturing with his teacup. 

Potter snorted, “I’m a dab hand, Malfoy, if you didn’t know. Had to be for the Aurors. I had bigger things to worry about in school than Potions. Old Severus has been rolling for years. His portrait told me so.” 

The old Draco Malfoy might have said something about his own Potions grade, or even Severus Snape himself, but that was a Draco Malfoy fifteen years and one war gone, so he only smiled self deprecatingly and hoped Potter understood what he meant. 

It seemed Potter did, because he smiled back at Draco, eyes half lidded and green (grass, quidditch fields, Slytherin, the good earth) behind his still overlarge frames. 

“You left behind a pretty prestigious position, Scarhead,” Draco said, smiling to let Potter know he was joking, “It’s been all over the papers.” 

And it had been. Every day there was a new exposé detailing the rift between Harry Potter and the Ministry. Consensus was that Potter had been Fed Up and the Ministry had been Useless and The Man Who Conquered was forced to take down a rather large ring of human trafficking dark wizards. Or potion smugglers. Or pygmy puff smugglers, or human trafficking pygmy puffs that smuggled potions. It was all very murky.

“Funny,” Potter said, “You’d think after all these years I’d give a shit.” 

They talked late into the night, as friends do, and when Potter slid his mouth over Draco’s as he left for home, it seemed the most natural thing in the world. 

 

*

The sixth time Potter brought Draco lunch, The Coat Rack nearly strangled Potter with its enthusiasm. After extricating himself from its groping whiles, Potter deposited a simple wooden tray upon Draco’s meticulously neat desk. Potter’s apron had been ripped clean off by The Coat Rack, and Draco spent a good thirty seconds leering at the strip of golden flesh scattered with dark hair that was revealed in this latest of Potter’s Heroic Endeavors. Grumpy the Kettle whistled joyfully where it was sat beside yet another of Agatha Diggory’s questionable novelty items. 

Blushing darkly, Potter righted himself and sat heavily in what Draco had come to call his chair. Rolling up his sleeves, Potter stretched his neck, pulling his wand from the confines of his hair. “ That Coat Rack is a menace, Malfoy,” he said, shooting warning sparks in its general direction (as it had begun a steady sort of shamble towards Potter’s chair). 

“Fighting with furniture, now? If the Daily Prophet could see you now, Potter “Draco wheedled, pushing his glasses up his nose. The dirty look Potter sent him shouldn’t have made Draco hot under the collar, but Draco was rapidly realising he was rather obsessed with Harry Potter. 

“Someone tell Rita Skeeter: The Man Who Conquered Conked by Coat Rack at COCK,” deadpanned Potter, lifting the lid off his latest sartorial offering. A plush looking brown bread sandwiching what looked like egg, avocado, and feta cheese. Draco sniffed. 

“I’m offended,” Draco sneered, “The Coat Rack loves you. And don’t you know that sandwich is ruining the housing market?” He opined. 

Potter snorted inelegantly, hand curling around a cup of tea Grumpy the Kettle sent to his hand with an exuberant whistle. Mumbling to himself, Potter sipped noisily. 

They spoke and ate for a good ten minutes, as they had begun to do. The Coat Rack seemed to sleep in its happy little corner. When the food had been cleared, Potter met Draco’s eyes over his desk with a steely glint. He clapped his hands once and nodded, as if he had come to great conclusion. 

“Malfoy.” 

“Yes, Potter?” 

“Close up your shop for the afternoon,” Potter said, twisting his hair around his wand and securing it on top of his head as if he were about to embark upon some very serious work. 

“Some of us have to make a living, Scarhead,” Draco said evenly, unbuttoning the top button on his pressed white shirt. Merlin it had gotten hot in here. Must be the Kettle’s fault, Draco thought murderously. 

“You have more money than the Queen, Ferret,” Potter said quite reasonably. Which, true, but the principle of the thing. 

“Agatha Diggory won’t wait, Potter,” Draco said with a grin, jerking his head in the direction of what looked to be wildly spinning set of purple eggs in the corner by Grumpy the Kettle.  
The Coat Rack leered, if coat racks were capable of such a thing. 

“Neither will I,” Potter said, near growling. 

Now, Draco Malfoy had about three seconds to process this odd statement before Potter was on him, all lips and cinnamon and heat. Potter, naturally, kissed the way he did anything else; Savagely, soft in the right sort of places and harder than iron in all the right ones. The scrape of his stubble and pull of his teeth worried at Draco’s lower lip before he slanted downward to lave at the soft skin of Draco’s neck. A collection of undignified noises rose from Draco’s throat. 

A firm ( _warm, sure_ ) hand closed around the rapidly hardening cock in his pants (who did that belong to, anyway!?) and Draco couldn’t stop himself from gripping Potter’s ( _thick, delicious, gorgeous Merlin and Morgana both_ ) arse with one long fingered hand. 

“ _Potter we’re at work_!” Draco squealed.

Potter laughed against his neck, hand sliding around Draco’s hip to rest against his arse. “Potter we’re at work!” He mocked, running his tongue against the edge of Draco’s jaw. Draco suffered this great indignity for a handful of seconds before he shoved Potter backwards against the edge of his desk roughly. 

“Fuck you!” Draco said, crowding Potter, lifting him up by the thighs, grinding himself against the answering hardness in Potter’s trousers. 

“That’s the…” Potter’s breath hitched as Draco reached between them and roughly undid his trousers with one dexterous hand. “Idea.”

“Fuck, Harry.” Draco breathed, curling his tongue around the other man’s with a needy groan. 

“Yes, I think so.” 

The Coat Rack groaned lecherously. 

It could be said that neither Curious Objects and Conscious Knickknacks, nor Baguette du Magique were open for the rest of the afternoon. Indeed, if one were to look upon the door of Draco Malfoy’s shop, one might see a simple glowing sign reading, “We waited. You can wait.” 

It should also be worth noting that one Harry Potter could never keep a straight face should anyone ever mention the housing market, which caused family dinners with Lucius Malfoy to be immensely entertaining for one Draco Malfoy, who often insisted on avocado toast at lunch.


End file.
